The Shillelagh, the Thompson, and the Stiletto
This is the first of Several stories I am writing based on the adventures of Bill McLaine. Prologue War, war never changes. The Irish fought the Italians for control of the criminal underworld of America in the 1800’s; The Huns invaded Europe, slaughtering in the name of gold and carnage; and in 2072, the Great war between the United States and the Peoples Republic of China reach its apex when nuclear war was initiated. Nearly 200 years have past since then, but one thing remains the same: War Never Changes. Chapter 1 One warm afternoon day, a man, came walking out of the wastes into the open street leading into southern Topeka. The man wasn’t all that tall, but he sure as heck wasn’t a push over. His arms bulged slightly against the rolled up sleeves of his long sleeved shirt, his barrel chest was noticeable beneath his red bulletproof vest and long, gray duster. The most striking feature about the man wasn’t the muscle, nor was it his full moon shades, or even his short cropped blonde hair beneath his wide brimmed fedora. No, the most striking feature was his eyes, which were such a pale, icy blue, that they almost looked dead. Those eyes turned hot blood ice cold with a glance, because they promised a long, painful death to whoever got on this mans bad side. At his hip, beneath his coat, was a pistol belt, and strapped to his vest was a bowie knife with a pale bone handle. The street appeared to be empty, but the stranger knew he wasn’t alone. The mostly collapsed buildings on this street had relatively new paint on the sides, depicting a bright red devil wearing a black hat. Stepping past what obviously marked a kind of border between the wasteland behind him and the city ruins before him, the stranger smiled slightly and drew his double barrel shotgun off of his back. This motion finally brought the hidden men out of hiding. Three men dressed in pin-stripe suits and wearing black fedoras, stepped out from several different buildings along the road, and blocked the way forward. The one in the middle lit a cigar and put it in his mouth, while the two flanking him drew out tommy-guns. “Who da fuck are you?” asked the center figure, a thick Hibernian accent slurring his words. “Me?” asked the Stranger, looking up from the road and fixing the leader with a bemused twinkle, “Well, my name is Bill…” “Bill? That’s it?” asked the one on the right. “Yep, Bills the name, and you three would be…?” asked Bill, who kept his double barrel lazily drifting from one gunman to the other. “You work for the Huns?” Asked the central figure “The who?” asked Bill, cocking his head ever so slightly. “You don’t know who the Huns are?” the central figure said, “They ride around on horses, killing people? You’re lucky mate, if you’d ran into them, you wouldn’t be here talking to me.” “They sound like raiders,” said Bill, slinging his shotgun and offering his hand to the man in the middle. “Eh, why not,” said the man, stepping forward and accepting Bills hand and shaking it, “You know, you might like our casino mate, why don’t you come with us and play a little blackjack?” “You know, I love me a game of blackjack.” Said Bill, following the trio of guards farther into town, his hand slowly going under his coat to the modified Chinese pistol at his hip “So, what is there to do here in town besides gamble at your gangs casino?” “Well, you could go down to Matts, it’s the cathedral in the center of town, they sell serve some good food.” Said the leader of the trio. “A cathedral?” asked Bill, surprised. “Yeah, tallest building from before the War that’s still standing, near the center of town. Ruled by the Saints, a group of heavily armed warrior-priests who could blow over half the town off the face of the planet.” Said the leader, nodding as the trio passed another pair of suits. After several minutes, and two turns, Bill found himself on a winding road that led up a hill to a large complex of buildings surrounded by a scrap metal wall. On top of towers that jutted from the wall at regular intervals were guards wearing more tactical outfits then the trio Bill was with. All of them still wore the black fedoras, but instead of a three-piece pinstripe suit these men wore gray fatigues and black bulletproof vests, and carried old varmint rifles or the occasional light machine gun. As Bill neared the only way through the wall, a gaping hole flanked by a pair of booths, he saw the sign over the largest of the three buildings: The Good Olde Jig. Once Bill passed under the gateway into the complex, the cigar-smoking gangster turned and faced him. “Sorry Billy me boy,” he said, raising his hand, “but I’ll be takin’ yer stuff while you go inside, no worries, we’ll lock them in a safe place.” “Alright, I’ll hand over me toys, here.” Bill took off his shotgun, then unbuckled his pistol belt and handed that over, then out of his sheath came the bowie, followed by a trench knife, and a derringer, and finally topped off with a trio of EMP grenades and one frag grenade. “That all of it?” asked the gangster, somewhat surprised by how much firepower he was holding. “Oh! Forgot these,” Bill exclaimed, drawing a sawed off, single barrel 12 gauge off of his back, beneath his coat, which was followed by a switchblade from his sleeve. “Alright, please enjoy your stay here at the Olde Jig.” Said the gangster, who stepped out of Bills way and let him pass. Bill took the door handle and pulled open the old wooden door, and was washed with the warmth and noise inside the hall. Entering the casino, Bill took a look around. There were black jack tables, slot machines, roulette, and even a baccarat table, though it seemed to have rare use. Bill grinned slightly and headed over to the chip counter. “Five hundred caps in chips please,” said Bill, taking out the five hundred and handing it to the banker. “Here you go sir, and good luck.” Bill nodded to the banker and headed to the nearest black jack table. Thirty minutes later, Bill’s good fortune was proven when, after winning almost every hand of Black Jack, a finely dressed man sat down next to McLain. “Well good sir, you seem to have done rather well indeed,” the stranger said, his accent seemed familiar to Bill, though he hadn’t heard since he was back east. “Yep, got about seventy thousand here. Let me guess, you are the casino’s floor boss?” asked Bill, his hand instinctively clenching slightly. “No, I am the Boss of the Black Hats, my name is Mr. Sinclair,” the stranger offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, my name is” started Bill. “Bill McLain, also known as the Tortoise, one of the leaders of the Wasteland Wavelength, and a well known gambler and adventurer. Yes, I know who you are, I listen to your station when it’s in range. I am rather surprised you came here to Topeka, last I heard, the Wavelength was somewhere in northern Texas.” Said Sinclair, turning to face Bill one on one. “They are, I on the other hand, heard me a few rumors, and decided to investigate into them.” Said Bill, who also turned in his chair while simultaneously slapping down his last hand on the table, which was followed by a few grunts and a gasp from around the table. “Mr. McLain wins again!” says the dealer. Bill turned again to face the table, and collected his chips onto a chip rack. “Mr. Sinclair, would you be so kind as to escort me to the bank so I can turn in my chips?” he asked, standing. “Of course.” Sinclair said, standing as well, and led the way to the counter. As they walked, two of Sinclair’s men flanked Bill on either side, trapping him. “Now, Mr. Sinclair, I won these chips fair and square,” said Bill. “Hmm? Oh, they aren’t here for you, they are my protection,” Sinclair stepped up to the counter and whispered something to the banker, who’s eyes widened slightly. “Are you certain sir?” said the banker. Sinclair nodded and turned, giving Bill an avenue to the counter. “Yes, I would like to turn in my chips for caps please,” said Bill, setting the tray on the counter taking one five hundred chip out of the stack, “All but this, which is for you.” “Thank you sir, but I can’t take that.” The banker said as he grabbed a very large sack out from under the counter, and began pulling smaller pouches out, all of which had 1000 stitched into the side. By the time he was done, the bag was much deflated. Grinning slightly, Bill shrugged off his backpack and grabbed one of the pouches… That’s when shit hit the fan. Suddenly, the front doors of the casino blew inward with a catastrophic crash, and five men ran into the casino, shooting as they entered, killing several Black Hats and a woman at one of the blackjack tables. “No body-fucking move! This is a stick up!” said one of the men, who was wearing a bullet proof vest over a red jumpsuit. All around the casino people started raising their hands, all but three people, Bill, Sinclair, and a fellow at the bar. “You heard the man, put your fucking hands up!” said the man closest to the bar, brandishing his shotgun and taking a menacing step toward the guy at the bar. In a blur of motion, the man, wearing a blood red gambling vest, grabbed the shotgun while he simultaneously drew a massive knife out of nowhere and flung it into another of the robbers. The blade sank to the hilt and the thief fell to the floor, dead. Using the moment to his advantage, Bill drew a small revolver out from inside his belt line and leveled at on the leader of the band of robbers. Looking across the room at the man at the bar, Bill nodded. “Now, I do believe that you boys should leave, and let all us fine folk get back to what we was doin’. What do you say?” he said, bringing the shotgun to his shoulder. The leader of the gang looked to his three remaining men, and then looked the man at the bar straight in the eyes. The leader raised his pistol, and before he could do anything, Bill plugged two rounds right into him, one slamming into his vest, the other scraping against the pistols side and blowing the mans trigger finger clean off. The guy at the bar opened up with the shotgun, pumping two of the three remaining men with buckshot. Unfortunately Bill and wasn’t fast enough to get the last one, as he aimed and began unloading his smg on Mr. Sinclair. By the time Bill turned and fired at the remaining gunman, Sinclair was on the floor, his chest and head riddled with bullets. As the dust settled, Bill took stock of the situation. Here he stood, in a room full of dead or dieing people, a pistol in his hand, next to the dead owner of the casino. Bill made a quick choice. Turning to the banker, he grabbed his caps, poured them into his pack, and put his pistol in Sinclair’s hand. Turning and facing the fellow at the bar, Bill nodded and walked out the back door of the casino, walked around the side, then crouched as he snuck around to the front. Just as he’d figured, the Black Hats were lining up to assault the casino. As the lead man burst through the door, Bill snuck up behind the guy he’d given his stuff to and snapped his neck, collected his shit, and left. Category:History